AT  THE  CROSSING 
WITH  DENIS  McSHANE 


ANGELES 


THE  SONG  OF  OUR  SYRIAN  GUEST 

THE  LOVE  WATCH 

SAINT  ABIGAIL  OF  THE  PINES 

THE  SIGNS  IN  THE  CHRISTMAS  FIRE 

THE  SHEPHERD  OF  JEBEL  NUR 

No  ROOM  IN  THE  INN 

OUTSIDE  A  CITY  WALL 

THE  SONG  OF  OUR  SYRIAN  GUEST  (WITH  NOTES) 

PETER  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT 

ON  THE  WAY  TO  BETHLEHEM 

AT  THE  CROSSING  WITH  DENIS  McSHANE 


DENIS    McSHANE 


AT  THE  CROSSING 
WITH  DENIS  MCSHANE 


BY 

WILLIAM  ALLEN  KNIGHT 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  SONG  OF  OUR  SYRIAN  GUEST" 
ETC. 


DRAWINGS   BY 

FLORENCE  SCOVEL  SHINN 


THE  PILGRIM  PRESS 

BOSTON  NEW   YORK  CHICAGO 

MCMXII 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
BY  WILLIAM  ALLEN  KNIGHT 


Copyright  in  England 
All  rights  reserved 


PUBLISHED,    SEPTEMBER,    1912 


THB- PLIMPTON  -PRBS3 
[  W  •  D  • O] 

NORWOOD- M  ASS- U-S-A 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.     BEFORE  A  CERTAIN  JUNE  DAT      ...        8 

II.       SOME  MORNTNGDALE  MATTERS  AFTERWARD         14 

III.  DENIS  AND  THE  GIPST 26 

IV.  WHEN  CHRISTMAS  CAME  ....       47 


2130601 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Denis  McShane Frontispiece 

Little  Maidens  on  Confirmation  Sunday  Facing  page  14 
Once  he  saw  the  Queen  of  the  Gypsies  ....     34 

We  took  our  way  home 54 

Little  ones  of  the  poor  bubbling  over  with  gladness    56 


AT   THE   CROSSING 
WITH   DENIS   McSHANE 

i 

BEFORE  A  CERTAIN  JUNE  DAY 


-ORNIN',  your  Riv'rence." 
My  first  impression  was  that  the 
old  street  sweeper  had  somehow 
mistaken  the  Domine  for  Father 
O'Leary.  He  had  always  seemed  a 
dull  enough  figure  to  do  the  like; 
besides,  I  noticed  that  he  squinted 
hard  when  he  shuffled  aside  for  a 
passing  team.  But  my  companion 
on  the  sidewalk  shut  off  that  exit 
from  my  amused  surprise. 

"Good  morning,  good  morning, 
Mr.  McShane.  A  fine  morning,  too, 
isn't  it?" 

"Indade  it  is,  sir,  thank  God." 
"The   shower   last   night   helped 
[3] 


At  the   Crossing 

you  a  bit,  Denis,  for  a  clean  street 
today,  I  hope." 

"Sure,  sure,  Father  —  ur-r-r,  your 
Riv'rence  —  God  be  praised." 

Clearly  Denis  McShane  knew  well 
enough  that  he  was  not  talking  with 
Father  O'Leary.  Yet  his  greeting 
had  been  marked  by  as  pretty  an 
exhibition  of  heartsome  deportment, 
I  fancy,  as  the  human  drama  any- 
where exhibited  at  that  moment 
under  the  sky.  Stopping  the  swing 
of  his  long  switch  broom,  he  straight- 
ened his  body  to  its  limit  of  upright- 
ness, slowly  faced  about,  and  touched 
his  weathered  hat,  smiling  and  blink- 
ing in  the  June  sunshine.  And  while 
he  stood  leaning  on  his  broom  handle 
the  little  colloquy  already  reported 
gave  proof  of  habitual  amenities 
between  Denis  and  the  Domine, 
demonstrating  their  friendship  in 
much  the  same  fashion  as  the  roses 
in  dooryards  round  about  testified 
that  it  was  Junetime. 

The  old  Irishman,  though  long  a 
[4] 


With  D  en  i  s  M  c  S  hane 

familiar  figure  in  our  street,  had 
seemed  to  my  eyes  so  impersonal  or 
at  least  of  another  order  of  being 
that  I  was  almost  as  much  surprised 
as  if  the  milkman's  drowsing  gray 
mare  had  upraised  her  head  and 
whinnied  to  the  Domine.  For  you 
must  know  that  this  title,  in  the 
speech  of  Morningdale,  was  the  des- 
ignation for  the  man  who  had  grown 
gray  in  the  pastorate  of  First  Church, 
and  Denis  was  —  it  sounds  strange 
now  to  repeat  the  old  time  epithet! 
—  a  papist. 

To  be  sure,  everybody  in  Morn- 
ingdale respected  the  Domine;  in- 
deed, nearly  everybody  loved  him 
— that  is,  speaking  after  our  wont, 
everybody  of  our  kind,  by  which 
we  meant  of  our  Protestant  stock. 
He  had  fondly  married  most  of  us 
who  were  in  mid-life  or  younger, 
baptized  our  little  ones  on  pleasant 
Sundays,  buried  our  dead  in  all 
weathers;  and  withal  we  had  never 
seen  his  like  for  being  a  friend  to 
[5] 


At  the   Crossing 

the  whole  village  in  times  of  need. 
But  we  had  yet  to  learn  the  scope  of 
his  capacity  for  friendliness. 

In  truth,  he  had  been  something 
of  a  puzzle  to  us  from  the  first,  he 
was  so  given  to  serene  unexpected- 
ness. Not  least  among  his  queer 
propensities  in  our  eyes  as  the  years 
went  on  was  an  apparent  fondness 
for  the  Irish.  There  had  been  ample 
occasion  for  perplexity  over  that  mat- 
ter. For  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Erin  seemed  somehow  to  have  found 
their  Paradise  in  our  town. 

"Why,  they  are  humans,"  the 
Domine  would  say  when  we  voiced 
our  dismay,  "exceedingly  interest- 
ing specimens  of  the  genus  homo,  in 
fact.  Let  me  see  —  who  was  it 
that  made  of  one  blood  all  nations 
of  men  for  to  dwell  on  all  the  face 
of  the  earth?" 

"It  beats  a',  that!"  said  Duncan 

McGregor,  our   Bible    class    leader,, 

whose  Scotch  head  was  making  the 

best  of  our  un-Presbyterian  church. 

[6]  * 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

Once  in  a  class  discussion  he  sol- 
emnly added:  "But  what  saith  the 
Boohk  —  what  saith  it  further?  Fin- 
ish the  passage."  Then  he  did  it 
himself  with  impressive  precision  — 
" '  and  hath  determined  the  times 
before  appointed,  and  the  bounds  of 
their  habitation,'  aye,  'the  bounds 
of  their  habitation."  This  seemed 
a  master-stroke,  indeed. 

When  some  one  told  the  Domine 
thereof,  a  twinkling  in  his  eyes 
heralded  a  rejoinder  which  became 
famous  in  Morningdale.  "Any- 
way," said  he,  "I  am  glad  that 
Duncan  did  not  see  fit  to  apply  this 
clause  to  his  side  of  the  Irish  Sea." 
The  dear  fellow  was  invulnerably 
friendly  to  all. 

At  length  the  neighboring  city 
reached  out  a  long  arm  and  took  us 
into  its  bounds.  Then  the  appro- 
priation of  Morningdale  proceeded 
apace.  Irish  bluecoats  sauntered 
through  our  streets,  pausing  jaun- 
tily to  chat  at  our  back  doors  with 
[7] 


At  the   Crossing 

Irish  maids.  Irish  postmen  took 
charge  of  our  letters  with  good- 
natured  quickness  of  understanding 
as  to  the  significance  of  postmarks 
or  the  handwriting  of  addresses 
thereon.  One  by  one  village  stores 
blossomed  out  with  comely  colleens 
behind  the  counters.  Of  a  Sunday 
morning  we  Puritan  folk  heard  the 
patter  of  brisk  feet  on  the  sidewalk 
while  yet  we  were  indulging  in  the 
extra  Sabbath  nap;  and  when  we 
were  on  the  way  to  First  Church 
with  the  ancient  bell  ding-donging 
the  last  strokes,  the  streets  of  Morn- 
ingdale  were  black  —  the  men  be- 
ing many  —  with  home-going  Irish 
humanity,  or  gay  as  a  garden  with 
white  garments  and  bright  colors 
by  reason  of  the  abounding  maiden- 
hood, all  pouring  out  at  the  doors  of 
St.  Anne's. 

We  shook  our  heads,  thinking 
much  but  saying  little.  What  could 
we  say?  But  our  hearts  were 
murky. 

[8] 


With  Denis   M  c  Shane 

In  such  a  plight,  judge  how  it 
tested  our  confidence  to  hear  reports 
at  length  that  the  Domine  was  a 
favorite  with  these  swarming  aliens. 
We  knew  that  they  were  wrong  who 
declared  that  he  was  "a  Jesuit  in 
disguise."  That  charge  had  a  fickle 
vogue  in  the  days  of  an  agitation 
designated  by  certain  letters,  three 
in  number  and  usually  spoken  with 
grave  eyes.  But  a  Jesuit  would 
hardly  include  a  bride  in  his  dis- 
guise outfit,  we  reasoned;  and  the 
Domine's  wife,  by  grace  of  the  pass- 
ing years,  had  proved  an  altogether 
substantial  reality,  being  obviously 
dearer  to  him  even  than  she  was  to 
us.  This  little  lady  quite  effectually 
checked  the  spread  of  that  mental 
pestilence,  and  at  last  by  her  serene 
wifeliness  exorcised  all  terrors  raised 
by  such  a  delirium  of  fevered  minds. 

Besides  that,  we  could  not  forget 

what  the  Domine  did  once  when  our 

choir,   by   some  inadvertence  as  to 

the  words  accompanying  music  that 

[9] 


At  the   Crossing 

pleased  them,  sang  an  Ave  Maria 
in  plain  English.  After  they  had 
sounded  forth  for  the  second  time 
some  such  refrain  as 

"  Thou  who  openest  for  us  salvation, 
Holy  Mother,  pray  for  us!" 

he  leaned  over  the  choir  rail  back 
of  the  pulpit  and  whispered  some- 
thing that  made  them  —  well,  we 
were  never  able  to  settle  the  ques- 
tion as  to  what  did  happen  pre- 
cisely, and  I  must  not  take  the  risk 
of  reopening  that  memorable  dis- 
cussion in  First  Church  Parish.  It 
is  enough  to  say  that  they  stopped 
singing,  and  the  Domine  rather  sud- 
denly and  resonantly  gave  out  the 
hymn, 

"All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name," 

adding  the  somewhat  superfluous 
injunction,  "To  the  tune  Corona- 
tion, brethren."  At  this  distance 
perhaps  it  may  be  safely  stated  fur- 
ther that  the  choir's  friendship  for 
[10] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

the  Domine  proved  strong  enough 
to  outride  and  at  length  allay  the 
tempest  of  rather  inconsistent  crit- 
icism which  might  —  who  knows  the 
ways  of  the  winds?  —  even  have  set 
the  good  man  adrift  from  his  anchor- 
age in  Morningdale. 

No,  he  was  not  in  any  wise  weak 
in  his  Protestant  proclivities.  And 
yet  there  was  no  denying  that  there 
was  some  warrant  for  the  reports 
that  our  Irish  neighbors  were  actu- 
ally friends  of  the  Domine.  What 
could  it  mean?  Everybody  knew 
that  he  and  Father  O'Leary  were 
so  joined  together  in  fighting  the 
devil  and  all  his  works,  particularly 
the  barrooms,  that  they  seemed  to 
have  forgot  all  about  fighting  one 
another.  For  my  part  I  suspected 
that  this  had  not  a  little  to  do  with 
the  way  the  people  of  St.  Anne's 
bore  themselves  toward  our  Do- 
mine; for  Father  O'Leary  was  a  ma- 
jor among  his  parishioners,  small  of 
stature  though  he  was,  and  they 
[11] 


At  the   Crossing 

obeyed  as  well  as  loved  him.  But 
be  that  as  it  may,  the  reports  con- 
tinued. 

Somehow  I  had  failed  to  see  these 
Morningdale  small  matters  other 
than  as  the  ways  of  a  man  ever 
doing  the  unexpected  out  of  sheer 
good  nature  and  human  fulness. 
That  our  Domine's  relations  with 
the  Irish  had  to  do  in  any  manner 
with  the  cause  of  the  Most  High 
in  the  earth,  that  he  was  bridging  a 
chasm  in  the  King's  name,  yes,  for 
the  feet  of  the  King's  men,  never 
occurred  to  me  until  that  morning 
when  Denis  McShane  stood  at  the 
crossing,  transfigured  before  my  eyes 
by  the  June  glory  and  the  bright 
light  of  human  kindness. 

I  can  see  the  stocky  old  figure 
now,  his  face  beaming,  his  horny 
hand  upraised  to  his  hat,  his  switch 
broom  bent  as  it  bore  his  leaning 
weight,  and  the  shimmer  of  fra- 
grant sunshine  round  him.  His  quiet 
brogue  is  in  my  ear  still.  Many  a 
[12] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

time  since  then,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  hearing  the  same,  have  I  passed 
where  I  saw  him  swinging  his  broom. 
So  it  was  that  Denis  and  I  became 
friends  at  length. 

He  is  gone  now;  no  more  is  he 
seen  swaying  slowly  adown  the 
street.  And  the  Domine  is  gone, 
too.  I  may  tell  what  I  will.  Father 
O'Leary  will  not  chide  me,  I  know, 
if  the  things  I  write  should  ever 
reach  the  rectory  of  St.  Anne's. 


[13] 


II 

SOME     MORNINGDALE     MAT- 
TERS    AFTERWARD 


.FTER  that  memorable  June  day 
when  I  saw  at  the  street  crossing  the 
glorification  of  Denis  McShane  — 
that  is  the  right  word,  the  scene 
shines  so  bright  through  the  haze 
of  the  years  —  I  found  myself  tak- 
ing strange  interest,  akin  to  delight, 
in  observing  the  Domine's  ways  with 
our  Irish  neighbors.  Or  perhaps  it 
would  be  more  exact  to  say  their 
ways  with  him;  for  he  never  seemed 
to  do  more  than  be  responsive  to 
some  instinctive,  human  understand- 
ing on  their  part. 

It  was  fine  to  walk  the  street  at 
his  side  and  watch  Irish  little  fel- 
lows jerk  their  caps  to  him  with 
respectful  glances.  Many  a  time  I 
heard  a  bunch  of  lads  from  the  paro- 
[14] 


LITTLE    MAIDENS     ON     CONFIRMATION 
SUNDAY 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

chial  school  call  out,  "  Good  mornin', 
Minister!"  That  was  the  Catholic 
title  for  him  —  minister.  I  won- 
dered at  it;  for  we  seldom  used  it 
ourselves  in  daily  speech,  and  yet 
it  was  the  most  fitting  term  in  the 
language  for  him,  this  man  who 
ministered  to  all  Morningdale. 

And  the  faces  of  Irish  girls  — 
from  the  little  maidens,  on  Confirma- 
tion Sunday  pretty  as  apple  blos- 
soms with  their  white  veils,  white 
garments  even  to  their  stockings, 
and  their  red  cheeks,  to  Miss 
Maloney  who  was  "head  sales- 
lady" at  the  dry  goods  store — all 
lighted  with  the  gleam  of  Erin's 
smiles  as  they  saw  him  approaching 
and  watched  for  his  recognition.  I 
came  to  feel  that  I  would  give  half 
the  village  lots  left  me  by  the  hon- 
ored pillar  of  First  Church  who  was 
my  father,  if  thereby  I  might  have 
the  music  of  such  simple  gladness 
sounding  for  me  as  their  voices  in 
greeting  made  for  the  Domine! 
[15] 


At  the   Crossing 

No  matter  how  the  water-wagon 
driver  might  skimp  the  dusty 
highway  elsewhere,  it  was  always 
abundantly  sprinkled  before  the 
parsonage  on  a  summer's  day;  and 
if  the  snow-plow  chanced  to  shunt  so 
as  to  leave  a  bank  on  the  Domine's 
walk,  it  was  actually  turned  back 
to  clear  a  path,  even  as  it  was  before 
the  rectory  of  St.  Anne's.  Day 
laborers  lounging  at  nightfall  in  a 
corner  group  would  still  their  ebul- 
lient chatting  to  say  "Good  evenin', 
Docthor,"  or  some  such  sudden  shift 
to  the  language  of  respect,  touching 
their  headpieces  as  he  passed  with 
a  pleasant  response.  I  used  to  see 
Irish  policemen  salute  him  —  a  lone 
stroller  on  his  uneventful  beat,  a 
whole  squad  tramping  heavily  from 
headquarters  to  their  night-watch 
—  and  it  was  as  when  soldiers  hap- 
pen to  pass  a  general  on  the  field. 

Even  Mike  Finnigan,  no  matter 
how  busy  he  might  be,  would 
promptly  come  outside  any  time  if 
[161 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

he  saw  the  Domine  standing  before 
his  saloon  door;  and  Mike .  would 
give  his  word  and  keep  it,  too, 
when  the  Domine  named  some  man 
who  was  making  a  beast  of  himself 
and  said,  "I  have  sent  him  to  Father 
O'Leary  to  sign  the  pledge;  now, 
not  another  drink  to  him,  Mr.  Fin- 
nigan  —  give  me  your  hand  on  that." 
There  was  a  growing  list  of  sober 
workmen  in  Morningdale  because 
of  those  pacts. 

"He's  white,"  was  Mike's  com- 
ment when  he  reappeared  behind 
the  bar. 

"He'd  shut  you  up  tomorrow, 
though,  if  he  could,  Finnigan,"  some 
toper  would  vouchsafe,  grinning  over 
his  glass. 

"  Sure  —  an'  what's  more,  him 
an'  Father  O'Leary '11  do  it  some 
day,  an'  put  that  in  your  pipe  fur 
a  cool  smoke!  What  wuz  it  you'll 
have,  Tim  Shaughnessey?" 

But    what    pleased    me    most    of 
[17] 


At  the  Crossing 

all,  though  it  touched  that  source  of 
waters  a  man  would  fain  keep  un- 
reached,  occurred  at  Grandma  Good- 
man's funeral  —  she  who  was  the 
oldest  member  of  First  Church  and 
had  a  head  of  her  own  to  the  last. 

The  Domine  had  said  his  last 
word.  The  throng  of  First  Church 
folk  had  passed  out  to  the  dooryard 
and  autumn's  russet  mellowness. 
The  large  circle  of  family  kin  had 
taken  their  leave  of  the  saintly  form 
to  the  third  generation  of  them  it 
had  lapped.  The  Domine  stood 
alone  beside  the  bier  banked  in 
flowers,  we  pall-bearers  awaiting  his 
nod.  He  was  in  no  hurry  about 
bearing  her  out  from  that  home  — 
forever ! 

I  saw  him  glance  toward  the  open 
door  as  in  reverie.  Suddenly  his 
attention  was  drawn.  He  beckoned. 
Then  he  stepped  to  the  waiting 
threshold  and  spoke  to  an  old  Irish 
woman  who  was  standing  apart 
outside  —  in  the  shelter  of  a  trumpet 
[18] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

honeysuckle  vine,  the  trumpets  deep 
scarlet.  Soon  she  came  tiptoeing  be- 
side him  to  where  the  body  of  Grand- 
ma Goodman  lay.  The  Domine 
turned  and  whispered  to  the  wait- 
ing undertaker  while  she  bent  rever- 
ently over  the  opening  in  the  coffin. 

I  saw  her  lay  a  soft  touch  on  the 
folded  white  hands,  smoothing  the 
ruches  also;  then  —  none  being  near, 
none  seeing,  as  she  supposed  —  I 
saw  her  reach  forth  two  old  fingers, 
saw  her  swiftly,  secretly  make  the 
sign  of  the  Cross  on  the  white-haired, 
cold  brow,  saw  her  lips  move  with 
still  breathings  as  of  words.  Then 
she  turned  and  with  body  bent 
tiptoed  away. 

Tears  came  nearer  brimming  my 
eyes  at  that  sight  than  I  like  to  have 
them.  Alone,  standing  where  her 
priest  might  not  come,  for  love's 
sake  she  had  outstretched  as  he  did 
two  fingers,  two  toil-worn  fingers 
of  her  own,  with  a  whispered  some- 
thing surely  prayer-laden!  Doing 
[191 


At  the   Crossing 

the  little  she  could  that  she  might 
somehow  impart  the  saving  help  of 
her  Church  to  Grandma  —  she  who 
had  washed  the  family  clothes  and 
made  them  white  in  her  suds  for  a 
generation ! 

It  was  Mrs.  McShane. 

Let  none  who  may  chance  to  scan 
this  breast-bare  narrative  of  Morn- 
ingdale  matters  as  seen  by  one  who 
was  a  part  of  all  he  saw,  suspect  me 
of  blurring  the  differences  between 
our  Catholic  neighbors  and  ourselves 
because  of  the  glamour  thrown  over 
all  by  the  Domine's  ways.  I  am 
the  son  of  my  father,  as  all  who 
know  me  seem  to  find  reason  for 
saying  evermore  —  whether  it  be 
in  the  uplift  of  my  hand  as  I  talk, 
or  the  bald  spot  starting  seasonably 
on  the  crown  of  my  head  amidst 
abundant  hair  elsewhere,  or  the  way 
I  have  of  smiling  and  yet  holding 
fast  to  my  own  notion  against  all 
comers.  And  my  father,  mark  you, 
[20] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

besides  having  a  keen  relish  for  the 
difference  between  the  forms  of  god- 
liness and  the  power  thereof,  was 
exceedingly  fond  of  the  idea  that  we 
are  all  kings  and  priests  unto  God. 
Yet  it  was  quite  the  way  of  my 
father  to  detect  essentials  persist- 
ing under  differences  whether  due 
to  temperament,  race  qualities,  life 
conditions  present  or  past,  or  any 
other  such  cause  of  the  ripples,  still 
pools,  shallows,  cascades,  or  deeps 
found  in  the  sea-going  streams  of 
mankind's  life.  Moreover,  it  was 
precisely  like  him  to  feel  the  charm 
of  all  human  graces  regardless  of 
station  or  lot.  He  reveled  in  dis- 
coveries of  likenesses  that  divulge 
kinships  between  every  people  and 
tongue.  I  even  remember  the  hush 
in  his  voice  and  the  glisten  in  his 
eyes  when  he  watched  the  parental 
doings  of  some  woodland  creature  or 
harked  to  the  variant-keyed  song  of 
the  hermit  thrush  as  it  sought  to 
sound  somehow  its  instinctive  feel- 
[21] 


At  the   Crossing 

ings  amidst  the  sanctities  of  even- 
ing time.  "How  like  us  men,  after 
all!"  he  would  whisper. 

That  thrush  song,  now  sung  in 
one  key,  then  in  another  and  still 
another,  but  much  the  same  in  all, 
was  his  favorite  likeness,  I  think, 
in  the  whole  of  nature  to  man's  ways 
in  love  and  worship. 

All  these  things,  be  it  known, 
were  true  of  his  son. 

In  the  sunshine  of  the  Domine's  in- 
fluence, therefore,  the  years  brought 
forth  and  matured  a  friendship 
with  Denis  McShane  in  my  own 
right,  ripening  the  fruit  thereof  at 
last.  No  tree  in  the  orchard  flank- 
ing our  house-garden  —  many  of 
them  planted  in  my  father's  early 
prime,  and  grafted  afresh  as  his 
years  mounted  that  they  might 
match  his  unspent  and  richening 
manhood,  some  of  them  more  beauti- 
ful to  me  now  than  the  color  or  fra- 
grance of  blossom  and  fruit  ever 
made  them,  because  I  remembered 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

summer  or  autumn  days  when  my 
mother's  face  looked  up  through 
their  leaves  while  her  agile  boy 
dropped  a  choice  Harvest  Sweet 
or  Baldwin  into  her  dear  apron  — 
no  tree  in  my  orchard  yielded  me 
pleasanter  returns  than  my  friend- 
ship with  the  old  street  sweeper. 
For  there  is  no  pleasure  in  life 
as  a  man  nears  the  September  of 
his  days  more — shall  I  say  tooth- 
some?— more  like  ripe  apples  when 
autumn  comes,  than  the  mellow  at- 
tachments of  the  lowly  whom  one 
has  befriended. 

I  daily  received  his  greeting  from 
the  street,  though  he  seemed  un- 
aware of  most  passers-by;  flavorous 
and  racy  were  the  chats  we  had  when 
I  paused  on  the  curb  now  and  then. 
By  and  by  my  delight  in  rehearsing 
these  things  brought  it  to  pass  that 
when  my  daughters  were  making 
ready  their  Christmas  gifts,  Denis 
—  he  had  no  children  of  his  own, 
by  some  unwonted  quirk  of  Nature 
[23] 


At  the  Crossing 

in  her  ways  with  the  Irish  —  Denis 
and  his  wife  were  always  remem- 
bered by  the  girls,  their  mother 
aiding  and  abetting.  They  would 
send  a  mother-of-pearl  cross  I  had 
brought  from  Bethlehem,  or  a  string 
of  beads  which  their  own  timid 
hands  had  thrust  into  that  cavity 
in  Ste.  Genevieve's  tomb  where 
souvenirs  are  blest  by  the  ashes  of 
the  patron  saint  of  Paris.  "From 
the  Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Virgin" 
or  "From  the  Church  of  St.  Etienne," 
they  would  inscribe  the  gift,  trusting 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  McShane  to  see  some 
delicate  compliment  to  their  own  St. 
Anne's.  And  Denis  would  be  sure 
to  appear  at  our  back  door  bearing 
a  bit  of  Irish  lace,  say,  with  Mrs. 
McShane's  "  Merry  Christmas,"  quite 
matching  my  daughters,  I  thought, 
in  suiting  the  gift  to  the  hearts  of 
the  receivers. 

When    Mrs.    McShane    died    we 
sent  flowers;  and  if  Denis  was  look- 
ing   out    from    behind    the    drawn 
[24] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

curtains  of  the  livery  carriage  as 
the  morning  procession  took  its 
way  from  St.  Anne's,  he  might  have 
seen  me  standing  among  the  folk 
that  lined  the  sidewalk.  My  hat 
was  removed,  my  head  bowed,  as 
every  man's  was  in  the  throng  of 
Denis  McShane's  friends. 

While  the  evening  of  that  day 
darkened  on  Morningdale  I  could 
not  do  other  than  make  my  way 
to  his  small  dwelling.  We  sat  to- 
gether awhile  —  out  on  the  bench 
among  geraniums  that  Mrs.  Mc- 
Shane  had  planted,  under  sun- 
flowers that  bent  their  heavy  heads 
down  as  if  mournful  and  dumb  with 
Denis.  I  will  not  try  to  record 
what  I  said.  It  was  halting  enough 
to  be  left  behind,  though  I  did  the 
best  I  could.  This  only  need  be 
told,  that  not  once  did  I  see  the  glow 
of  the  old  man's  pipe  in  the  gloam- 
ing. This  solace  of  his  day's  end 
for  a  lifetime  was  in  his  hand;  but 
it  was  stone-cold  all  evening. 
[25] 


Ill 

DENIS    AND    THE    GIPSY 

1  HE  best  of  friends  must  be  pre- 
pared to  discover  at  times  that  one 
or  the  other  has  a  secret  —  nothing 
of  consequence,  perhaps,  but  some- 
thing he  wishes  to  keep  to  himself. 
Friendship  has  few  finer  tokens  than 
to  honor  that  wish  outright.  I  had 
occasion  to  remember  this  more 
than  once  in  my  long  relations  with 
the  old  street  sweeper;  and  this  I 
did  on  that  summer  night  when  he 
was  first  alone;  for  I  noticed  that 
he  kept  looking  momentarily  at  a 
brass  ring  he  always  wore.  But  I 
asked  no  questions. 

There  was  one  small  matter,  how- 
ever, often  the  subject  of  my  curi- 
osity through  the  years,  which  I 
became  eager  to  learn  about.  In- 
deed, when  I  observed  it  still  after 
[261 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

Mrs.  McShane  was  gone,  my  curi- 
osity deepened  to  tender  longing. 
Was  Denis  really  singing  as  he  swung 
his  broom  through  the  street?  Many 
a  time  I  had  thought  that  I  caught 
the  sound  of  song;  and,  believe  me, 
I  seemed  to  hear  the  same  in  the 
long  autumnal  days  whose  shining 
covered  Denis  McShane  in  the  street 
—  and  his  old  wife's  grave  among 
the  hillside  crosses. 

But  though  he  seemed  quite  heed- 
less of  pedestrians  in  general,  and 
usually  stepped  aside  at  the  sound 
of  a  vehicle  in  good  season  without 
so  much  as  glancing  toward  it,  yet 
the  monotone  as  of  song  was  always 
hushed  before  I  was  near  enough  to 
listen.  When  I  called  my  good 
morning  or  stopped  on  the  curb, 
the  old  man  would  turn  slowly  and 
give  me  greeting  as  out  of  perfect 
silence  —  God  bless  him  for  the 
gleam  and  twinkle  in  his  stolid 
face! 

But  there  came  a  day  when  I 
[27] 


At  the  Crossing 

could  not  refrain  in  this  alluring 
matter.  There  was  a  light  snowfall 
that  morning  and  perhaps  for  this 
reason  he  did  not  hear  my  tread. 
If  the  whole  truth  must  be  told,  I 
had  stepped  a  bit  softly  to  help  the 
snow's  silencing.  Besides,  the  early 
December  street  was  slushy  and 
rather  heavy  for  his  broom,  which 
doubtless  gave  Denis  cause  for  being 
more  engaged  than  common,  even 
requiring  the  use  of  the  noisier  hoe. 
And  withal,  Denis  McShane  was 
age-bound  indeed  in  those  wifeless 
days. 

In  any  case,  I  stood  listening  — 
stood  so  near  that  I  heard  his  voice 
distinctly  —  heard  a  rhythmic  mon- 
otone, an  old  man's  humdrum  way 
of  singing,  as  he  swayed  and  swayed 
swinging  his  broom  or  dragging  the 
hoe  over  the  stones. 

It    was    so    fine    a    thing  —  this 

charming   an  unsavory  and  dreary 

task  by  tuneful  musings  which  no 

doubt     brought     memory's     sweet 

[28] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

silences  round  his  bent  head  —  that 
I  came  near  leaving  the  veteran 
soul  undisturbed,  as  one  might  a 
kneeling  figure  fingering  magic  beads 
before  a  wayside  shrine. 

But  just  as  I  was  starting  to  pass 
on,  he  chanced  to  pause  and  stood 
half  erect,  one  hand  on  his  broom 
handle,  the  other  on  the  hoe,  while 
he  scanned  the  street  in  leisurely 
obliviousness.  Thus  it  was  that  he 
spied  me  at  the  curb.  His  face 
broke  into  quizzical  beaming. 

"Be  all  the  saints!"  He  slowly 
swung  the  switch  broom  over  his 
shoulder. 

Sunlight  on  the  fresh  snow  threw 
a  sheen  over  all  December's  pallid 
beauty  round  about  us.  I  remem- 
ber how  that  setting  seemed  to  befit 
the  aged  figure  with  the  shining, 
quiet  face. 

"You  and  the  sun  will  soon  clear 
away  the  snow,  Mr.  McShane  — 
I  was  watching  you  work  together." 

"Ach!  Bedad,  that's  sure  — 
[29] 


At  the  Crossing 

this  wone,  sir,  please  God.  But  the 
next  —  and  the  next!  —  But  Christ- 
mas comes  in  snowtime,  sir." 

"That's  a  fact.  And  are  you, 
too,  thinking  of  Christmas  so  soon? 
Some  girls  I  know  were  speaking  of 
it  only  last  night  —  and  of  you, 
Mr.  McShane."  I  thought  to  but- 
tress his  loneliness  by  this  slight 
treachery  as  to  my  daughters. 

He  caught  the  sound  of  a  wagon 
yet  a  block  away  and  slowly  trudged 
to  the  curbing  dragging  the  hoe. 
He  eyed  the  rattling  wheels  as  they 
came  and  passed. 

"Thim  gives  me  time,"  he  mused 
beside  me;  "but  these  oty -mow- 
bills  —  faith !  the  things  comes  on 
a  man  shtill  an'  quick  as  the  divil 
himself!" 

One  of  these  yet  disquieting  inno- 
vators in  Morningdale  at  the  time 
of  which  I  am  writing,  sped  by  on 
muffled  wheels  before  his  words  were 
followed  by  further  speech.  It  was 
my  opportunity. 

[30] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

"Would  you  mind  my  asking, 
Mr.  McShane,  if  you  were  think- 
ing of  Christmas  while  you  were 
singing?" 

"Singin'?"  He  peered  into  my 
eyes  gravely. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  singing 
to  yourself  while  you  worked." 

"Ach!  'Twas  niver  a  bit  of  a 
tyune,  sir,  sure  now.  The  likes  o* 
me !  —  Sure,  the  song  in  me  vaice 
left  me  this  twinty  year  gone  like 
the  robins  when  the  leaves  is  turnin' 
an'  the  nests  is  empty  —  they  only 
chirps  then,  sir." 

I  marked  a  flicker  of  Irish  humor 
in  his  steadfast  gaze. 

"I  wouldn't  say,  though,  that 
the  old  birds  might  not  feel  like 
singin',  even  when  they  only  chirps 
a  bit  to  thimselves." 

Before  long  my  eagerness  pre- 
vailed, and  the  old  man  was  repeating 
for  me  the  words  he  was  sound- 
ing while  he  worked.  The  lilt  in 
his  voice  and  the  music  of  the  words 
[31] 


At  the  Crossing 

were  so  like  song  in  all  save  the 
wing-way  of  melody  that  I  readily 
believed  he  spoke  truly  in  declaring 
that  there  was  no  "tyune"  lifting 
his  utterance  when  I  overheard  him. 
It  was,  however,  like  the  singing  of 
primitive  man,  after  all. 

The  only  lines  I  can  recall  now 
ran  somewhat  as  follows: 

"And    brighter  than   the   berries   are   the 

kindly  Irish  eyes, 
And   cheery  are  the  greetings  of  the 

day  — 
The  greetings  and  the  blessings  from  the 

Irish  hearts  that  rise 
At  Christmas-time  in  Ireland  far  away." 

"But  what  set  you  thinking  of 
Christmas  now?"  I  asked  with  de- 
light, when  the  slight  teeter  of  his 
whole  frame  with  the  pulsing  words 
had  ceased. 

"Why,   'tis  Advent,   sir,   an'  the 

collect   last  Sunday  wuz,   'Stir   up 

our  hearts,  O  Lord,  to  make  ready 

the    ways    of    thine    only-begotten 

[32] 


With  Denis   M  c  Shane 

Son!'  An'  Father  O'Leary  he  says 
to  us,  says  he,  'A  man  should  tyune 
up  his  mind  like  a  instrument  o* 
music.'  We  gets  unstrung  like  a 
fiddle  in  wet  weather,  he  told  us; 
young  wones  is  like  new  an'  needs 
tyunin'  awful  bad,  bein'  full  o'  sap 
or  sich  like,  an*  old  wones  mustn't 
git  the  notion  they  niver  can  do  it 
agin  — '  old  fiddles  well  tyuned 
makes  the  best  music  of  all,'  he  says. 
So  I  wuz  sayin'  over  thim  words, 
sir,  to  quit  feelin'  too  old  fur  Christ- 
mas. An'  you  thought  I  wuz 
singin'?  Well,  well,  now!" 

I  knew  enough  to  follow  the  vein 
that  had  yielded  such  a  nugget.  We 
talked  of  Ireland  and  his  youth.  His 
memories,  once  they  were  aglow, 
disclosed  those  bright  colors  of 
romance  which  seem  to  linger  for- 
ever in  Irish  breasts  like  the  many 
hues  in  an  opal,  though  it  is  dull 
enough  until  touched  by  light. 

As  he  told  of  Christmas  in  his 
childhood's  land,  he  drew  up  his 
[33] 


At  the  Crossing 

hoe  until  the  handle  raised  his  arm 
above  his  head,  "restin'  his  rheu- 
matiz,"  and  so  talked  on  of  how 
once  he  saw  Gipsies  —  the  queen 
of  Gipsies,  in  fact,  if  his  cred- 
ulous boyhood  was  not  deceived 
by  great  earrings,  and  a  profusion 
of  black  hair,  and  a  crimson  head- 
cloth,  and  a  broad  bracelet.  It 
was  a  green  Christmas  that  year, 
and  he  met  a  man  in  a  lane  who 
said,  "  Come  with  me  and  the  Gipsy 
queen  will  give  you  a  Christmas  gift 
for  your  mother,  my  lad." 

He  was  just  beginning  to  tell  me 
what  happened  before  he  saw  his 
mother  again  —  before  she  threw 
her  arms  around  her  lost  boy 
"weepin'  fur  jaiy"  —  when  he 
stopped  to  gaze  at  a  passing  street 


car. 

u 


There  it  is,  sir  —  the  sign  that 
set  me  thinkin'  of  it  all!"  He 
squinted  hard,  pointing  with  the 
hand  whereon  was  the  brass  ring.  I 
saw  the  word  Gipsy  in  big  letters 
[34] 


ONCE     HE    SAW    THE     QUEEN    OF    THE 
GYPSI ES 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

on  a  placard  attached  to  the  car's 
end,  and  understood  its  meaning 
at  once.  Denis  McShane's  old  eyes 
had  been  unable  to  make  out  the 
smaller  lettering,  and  I  explained 
that  a  Gipsy  missioner  was  address- 
ing crowds  every  night  down  in  the 
city. 

"A  sure  'nough  Gipsy?" 
"So  they  say,  Mr.  McShane." 
"Bedad,  I'd  like  to  set  my  eyes  on 
wone  o'  thim  fellers  ag'in !     'T would 
mind   me   o'  me   baiyhood,  sure  — 
an'  maybe  it  might  give  me  the  feel 
o'  me  mother's  arms  once  more." 

The  appeal  of  such  words  was  irre- 
sistible. I  forthwith  proposed  that 
we  go  together  to  hear  the  Gipsy  mis- 
sioner. I  trust  Father  O'Leary  not 
to  blame  me,  if  this  confession  should 
ever  reach  his  experienced  ears.  For 
nothing  was  further  from  my  mind 
just  then  than  desire  to  turn  Denis 
from  the  faith  of  his  fathers. 

So   eager  was  he   that  we    went 
that  very  night.     The  meeting  was 
[35] 


At  the  Crossing 

in  a  vast  hall.  Denis  had  no  spe- 
cial cause  for  misgivings  on  the 
score  of  entering  a  church,  for  the 
masses  of  people  filling  floor  and 
galleries  were  scurrying  for  seats 
or  chatting  with  vivacious  expect- 
ancy; and  besides  that,  at  sight  of 
those  circling  balconies  Denis  re- 
called the  pleasure  of  more  than 
one  Democratic  rally  or  convention 
in  that  dazzling  auditorium.  He  felt 
quite  at  home  and  bore  himself 
accordingly  —  having  found  seats 
by  the  front  railing  in  a  top  gallery, 
my  old  Irishman  promptly  fixed  his 
hat  in  the  holder  under  his  seat  and 
leaned  forward  to  enjoy  looking 
down  on  the  crowd. 

A  chorus  massed  high  back  of 
the  rostrum  was  rolling  out  song 
after  song  with  dramatic  rendition. 
Presently  the  precentor  turned  to 
the  throng  of  listeners  and  called, 
"All  sing  that  chorus!"  Led  by 
his  waving  arm  the  multitude  broke 
into  a  surge  of  song  like  the  voice  of 
[36] 


With  Denis  M  c  S  hane 

many  waters.  Denis  straightened 
up  and  crossed  himself  brow  and 
breast. 

"Now  you  sing  it  alone  up  there, 
friends!"  The  leader  swept  with 
his  gesture  a  long  side  gallery  as  if 
he  were  summoning  inhabitants  of 
Mars.  "That  gallery  is  usually 
almost  as  good  as  the  choir"  —  he 
paused  to  look  round  on  his  chorus 
playfully  —  "come  on,  the  rest  of  us 
will  listen,  then  we'll  all  sing  it  after 
you.  Come  on  —  now  —  sing ! " 

From  the  high  slope  thus  utilized 
a  brave  but  somewhat  imponderous 
attempt  was  made  to  meet  the  chal- 
lenge, every  ear  and  eye  attentive. 
Denis  joined  good-naturedly  in  the 
general  ripple  of  laughter.  And 
when,  like  a  commander  proudly 
ordering  up  his  whole  army  to  over- 
whelm some  slight  repulse,  the  leader 
cried,  "Ev-rybody,  sing  it!"  in 
the  joyous  roar  of  song  I  heard 
beside  me  the  responsive  voice  of 
Denis  catching  at  the  words, 
[37] 


At  the  Crossing 

"At  the  cross,  at  the  cross,  where  I  first 

saw  the  light, 

And  the   burden  of   my  heart  rolled 
away." 

But  it  must  be  admitted  that 
there  was  "niver  a  bit  of  a  tyune," 
indeed,  even  as  he  had  said. 

These  things  were  only  prepar- 
atory, however.  All  were  aware  of 
this,  including  my  companion. 

"Where's  the  Gipsy?"  he  asked 
at  length  in  a  tone  heard  by  others 
besides  myself.  A  multitude  of  sing- 
ing angels  with  harps  would  hardly 
have  turned  his  mind  from  that 
question  much  longer. 

"There  he  comes  —  see?" 

Denis  peered  under  his  hand. 

A  man  was  making  his  way  among 
the  occupants  of  the  platform  — 
quiet,  alert,  greeting  one  and  an- 
other fraternally. 

He  emerged  at  the  front,  stood 
serene,  swept  the  throng  with  brood- 
ing eyes,  lifted  his  hand  —  and  in 
[38] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

the  stillness  that  came  we  heard, 
"Let  us  pray." 

As  I  bowed  my  head  I  saw  Denis 
crossing  himself  again. 

The  prayer  was  brief,  tender,  ap- 
pealing. When  it  ended  we  saw  the 
same  figure  standing  as  before.  He 
was  rather  short  but  of  strong  build; 
his  sturdy  head  was  mantled  with 
long  black  hair;  a  Roman  nose  and 
an  ample  black  mustache  gave  dis- 
tinct outlines  to  his  face  even  at  our 
distance.  But  more  than  all  else 
his  voice  was  masterful.  For  res- 
onant sweetness  and  the  tone  of 
authority,  it  was  wonderful. 

"Where's  the  Gipsy?"  Denis 
whispered  it  this  time. 

"That  man  —  the  one  in  front." 
Remembering  his  poor  eyes,  I  added, 
"The  man  whose  voice  we  just 
heard." 

Denis  smiled  his  incredulity  as 
one  does  who  has  private  knowledge 
of  a  matter. 

The  missioner  was  speaking  aside 
[39] 


At  the  Crossing 

to  those  about  him.  Soon  he  turned 
and  announced  that  he  would  sing 
himself  now  —  he  had  been  listen- 
ing to  our  songs,  he  said. 

A  piano  was  softly  touched,  a 
hush  fell  on  the  assembly,  and  the 
Gipsy's  voice  rose  like  a  bird  taking 
wing  in  still  air — gliding — circling 
—  poising  —  heaven-going  — 

"I — will  sing — the  won-drous  sto-o-ry 

Of — the  Christ — who  di-ied — for  me, 
How — he  left — his  home  —  in  glo-o-ry 
For — the  cross — on  Cal-va-ry." 

The  multitude  was  listening  like 
a  little  child  as  he  went  on  telling 
"the  wondrous  story"  — 

"I — was  lost — but  Jesus — found  me, 

Found — the  sheep — that  went  asti-ay, 
Threw — his  loving — ar— rms — around  me, 
Drew — me  back — into-o — his  way." 

On  reaching  the  refrain  a  second 
time  the  singer  lifted  his  hand,  say- 
ing softly,  "Sing  with  me!"  And 
like  a  sea-chant  indeed  rose  the  voice 
of  the  people  in  swelling  cadence, 
[40] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

"Yes,  I'll  sing — the  won-drous  sto-o-ry 

Of — the  Christ  —  who  di-ied — for  me, 
Sing    it  —  with  — the   sa-aints  —  in   glo- 

o-o — ry, 
Gath-ered  by — the  crys-tal  sea." 

Such  unison  of  many  voices  in  a 
quavering  Welsh  tune,  so  great  a 
host  borne  upward  by  the  simplest 
words  as  it  were  by  wings  —  all 
under  the  spell  of  a  single  gentle 
voice  and  lifted  hand  —  it  was  mar- 
velous to  watch.  But  it  well  nigh 
failed  to  interest  Denis.  Not  until 
the  gliding  mass  of  voices  rose  to 
that  line  at  the  refrain's  end, 

"Sing   it  —  with  —  the  sa-aints  —  in   glo- 
o-o-iy," 

did  his  face  show  any  sign  of  appre- 
ciation. I  think  it  was  disbelief 
or  at  least  doubt  as  to  the  missioner's 
genuine  gipsyhood  that  threw  him 
into  irresponsiveness. 

Presently  some  one  read  the  nar- 
rative of  the  boy  Jesus  being  missed 
[41] 


At  the  Crossing 

by  his  mother  as  she  was  returning 
home  from  the  temple.  Another 
song  was  sung  —  it  was  "I  need 
Thee  every  hour  "  —  then  the  mis- 
sioner  began  to  talk. 

I  have  never  been  good  at  remem- 
bering sermons,  but  the  Gipsy's 
seems  fairly  clear  even  now  as  I  try 
to  recall  it.  His  theme  was  The 
Lost  Christ.  As  he  pictured  the 
mother's  anxiety  about  her  lost  boy, 
he  caught  the  ear  of  Denis  at  once. 
The  old  man  leaned  forward,  squint- 
ing hard  and  gazing.  Before  long 
he  turned  to  say,  "I  bet  he  is  wone 
o'  thim  fellers!  That's  like  'em 
—  lost  childer'  an'  mothers  huntin' 
'em,  an*  all  that."  Then  I  heard 
him  talking  to  himself  as  he  again 
leaned  over  the  railing  to  listen. 

"She  lost  Christ j  friends,  as  she 
was  going  away  from  the  church," 
sounded  the  missioner's  voice. 

"Sure — the  darlin'!"  lisped  Denis. 
"But  the  Holy  Mother  couldn't 
help  that,  now  —  'twas  some  o'  thim 
[42] 


With  Denis  M  c  Shane 

Jew  fellers  kep'  'im,  talkin'  to  'im 
an'  sich  —  jus'  like  Gipsies  does." 

"She  sought  him,"  the  preacher 
next  declared,  "among  her  friends 
and  kinsfolk,  but  she  did  not  find 
him  there." 

"Sure  —  sure!  He's  Gipsy — he 
knows  'bout  that  all  right  —  how 
mothers  hunts  an'  can't  find  'em!" 
So  I  heard  Denis  muse. 

While  the  missioner  pressed  his 
point  home  to  the  social  foibles  and 
Christless  relations  of  us  all,  the  old 
man  at  the  high  gallery  rail  kept  re- 
peating, * '  Sure ! — Sure ! "  But  I  could 
not  make  out  clearly  whether  it  was 
the  absence  of  Christ  in  our  lives 
or  the  presence  of  a  Gipsy,  a  real 
Gipsy,  then  and  there,  that  he  was 
so  certain  about. 

Finally,  speaking  with  winning 
skill,  the  preacher  reached  the  cli- 
max. "She  found  him,  friends, 
where  she  had  lost  him  —  found  him 
when  she  went  back  to  the  temple, 
seeking  Him." 

[43] 


At  the  Crossing 

I  felt  the  force  of  this  expository 
artistry,  this  mesmeric  humanness — 
felt  it  gripping  my  own  possibly 
too  careless  spirit.  Yet  I  was  even 
more  concerned  just  then  to  learn 
what  Denis  would  make  of  that 
point. 

His  face,  bent  low  over  the  rail- 
ing, was  all  abeam.  I  saw  glisten- 
ing at  the  eyes  —  with  the  back  of 
his  ring  hand  he  stayed  a  trickle  or 
two.  Then  he  turned  his  shaggy 
countenance  to  mine. 

"Bedad,  he  is  Gipsy!  He  knows 
their  ways  all  right.  Thim  Jew 
fellers  would  niver  'av'  done  it, 
though — niver  'av'  give  'er  a  sight 
o'  him  —  but  fur  hearin'  that  a  lot 
o'  folks  wuz  out  huntin'  the  dear 
lad.  That's  the  Gipsy  way,  you 
see  —  he  knows." 

"She  found  him,"  sounded  the 
preacher's  voice  pleadingly,  "when 
she  came  back  where  she  had  lost 
him." 

"Sure!  Sure!"  murmured  the 
[44] 


With  Denis  M  c  S  hane 

voice  at  the  gallery  rail.     "I  knows 
how  it  wuz." 

Presently,  drawn  by  persuasive 
tenderness,  men  and  women  and 
youth  who  "wanted  to  come  back 
where  they  lost  Him"  were  moving 
all  over  the  hall,  going  forward  to 
stand  before  the  missioner.  Denis 
looked  on  with  silent  gaze. 

Soon  I  observed  that  he  was  work- 
ing off  the  brass  ring.  Then,  fur- 
tively, under  the  cover  of  his  hand, 
he  peered  at  the  Gipsy  through  the 
ring. 

On  our  way  home  my  companion 
recognized  an  acquaintance  of  his 
in  the  car,  one  Devlin  —  Pat  Dev- 
lin —  a  boxer  of  repute  whom  I 
had  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
before.  Him  I  ventured  to  ask  for 
his  impression  as  to  the  Gipsy. 

1  'Taint  fair!"  was  his  ungloved 
return.  When  I  inquired  why  he 
took  that  view,  he  replied,  "He  sung 
me  guards  down,  an'  then  he 
punched  me." 

[45] 


At  the  Crossing 

But  my  only  regret  when  our 
"good  night"  words  were  said  was 
that  I  had  not  heard  to  the  end 
the  story  of  Denis  and  the  Gipsies 
long  ago. 


[46] 


IV 

WHEN    CHRISTMAS    GAME 


T] 


HE  next  day  was  wet  and  dis- 
mal. I  did  not  go  far  from  our 
blazing  fireplace.  But  through  the 
windows  I  saw  Denis  pass  the  house 
at  his  work  sometime  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

On  the  following  morning  I  strolled 
out  in  the  winter  sunshine  hoping  to 
meet  my  friend.  I  wanted  to  hear 
the  rest  of  that  story.  Instead,  I 
heard  shocking  news. 

The  evening  before  Denis 
McShane  had  been  run  over.  In 
the  dark  day's  early  nightfall,  it 
appeared,  while  the  old  man  was 
plodding  at  his  task,  amid  vehicles 
hurrying  home,  he  had  failed  to  see 
or  hear  an  automobile  in  time.  He 
was  bruised  —  would  be  confined 
[47] 


At  the  Crossing 

to  his  bed  for  some  time  —  it  was 
hoped  that  there  were  no  fatal 
injuries  —  that  was  all  anybody 
could  tell  me. 

I  saw  Denis  before  the  turn  of 
the  day  set  in;  and  no  weather  kept 
me  from  his  door  as  the  shortening 
days  sped  us  toward  Christmastide. 
He  was  always  cheerful  in  spite  of 
pain  and  distressing  weakness. 

But  do  what  we  might,  there  was 
no  rallying  of  his  vital  powers.  The 
shock  had  been  too  much  for  his 
age-worn  frame.  The  silver  cord 
was  loosed,  the  golden  bowl  broken, 
the  pitcher  broken  at  the  fountain, 
the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern 
— the  mechanism  that  drew  life's 
waters  for  him  would  work  no  more. 

When  the  bells  of  Christmas  Eve 
began  to  sound,  we  saw  that  the  end 
was  near.  His  ear  caught  their 
music  still;  and  he  smiled,  welcom- 
ing the  merry  clangor  —  he  whose 
heart  had  been  set  on  not  "feeling 
too  old  for  Christmas." 
[48] 


With  Denis  M c  Shane 

"Thim  minds  me  o'  the  way  I 
used  to  shpring  out  o'  me  bed  — 
when  the  wone  bell  we  had  would 
r-i-ng,  r-i-ng,  startin'  Christmas  — 
in  County  Galway  —  in  me  baiy- 
hood."  Pain  caught  his  voice  at 
times,  pain  in  his  left  side;  but  his 
countenance  quickly  shone  again 
afterward. 

"I  feels  the  touch  o'  the  floor  on 
wone  foot  now  —  jus'  wone,  though 

—  'twas  a  earth  floor  —  an'  I  sees 
the  path  o'  moonlight  I  stepped  in 

—  to  git  sight  —  o'  the  first  peep  o' 
day." 

Then  he  lay  for  a  while  with  eyes 
closed;  and  his  face  was  as  when 
mortals  smile  in  a  happy  dream. 

As  the  night  deepened  Father 
O'Leary  came.  And  by  his  kindness 
the  Domine,  when  he  called  at  the 
door,  entered  and  remained  in  the 
house. 

Father  O'Leary  was  with  the  suf- 
ferer alone  for  a  time.  I  suppose 
that  the  soul  of  Denis  eased  itself 
[491 


At  the  Crossing 

of  all  cumber  then  —  man's  ear  and 
voice  making  God's  real  for  such  a 
one  as  he.  And  somehow,  I  doubt 
not,  the  Sin-bearer  was  known  of 
him,  giving  much  the  same  solace 
that  I  hope  for  when  my  time  comes. 

At  length  Father  O'Leary  beck- 
oned the  Domine  and  me  into  the 
little  bedroom.  Denis  had  some- 
thing he  wished  to  have  us  hear. 
The  door  being  shut,  Father  O'Leary 
held  in  his  hand  the  brass  ring  that 
Denis  wore.  And  thus  he  spoke. 

"Mr.  McShane  is  grateful  to  you 
for  the  long  friendship  you  have 
shown  him.  Therefore  he  wishes 
you  to  hear  the  story  of  this  ring  — 
and  what  follows  it." 

The  priest  spoke  like  one  fulfil- 
ling a  trust  with  simple  fidelity. 

"When  he  was  a  lad  in  Ireland 
he  was  led  away  to  a  Gipsy  camp. 
There  a  woman  who  made  him  be- 
lieve she  was  the  queen  of  Gipsies 
talked  with  him.  She  took  up  a 
ring  and,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him, 
[501 


With  Denis  M c S hane 

looked  at  him  through  the  ring. 
While  she  did  this  she  said,  as  he 
remembers  her  words, 

'  Through  something  round 
His  fate  is  found.' 

She  added  some  saying  about 
'bound,'  but  he  can  not  recall  that." 

Denis  turned  his  head  on  the 
pillow,  opened  his  eyes  wide,  then 
squinted  them  to  scan  our  faces. 

"A  hue  and  cry  was  raised  for 
the  lost  boy,  and  neighbors  joined 
in  hunting  for  him.  Because  of 
this  the  boy  was  returned  to  a  place 
near  his  mother's  cottage  whence 
he  had  been  led  away.  But,  being 
made  to  believe  that  the  woman's 
ring  held  the  secret  of  his  destiny, 
he  had  contrived  to  steal  it  and 
bear  it  away.  This  is  that  Gipsy 
ring. 

"He  kept  it,  a  secret  treasure.    At 

first  he  imagined  that  the  *  something 

round'  which  the  Gipsy  woman  saw 

through  this  ring  might  be  the  coin 

[511 


At  the  Crossing 

of  the  realm  —  that  he  was  to  pros- 
per by  making  money.  In  this  hope 
he  came  to  America.  When  the 
Civil  War  broke  out,  and  he  enlisted 
as  a  soldier,  in  battle  or  on  picket 
duty  he  feared  that  a  bullet  might 
be  the  *  something  round '  that  would 
determine  his  fate.  After  the  war 
was  over,  when  he  married  Mrs. 
McShane  he  hoped  and  believed  that 
the  marriage  ring  was  what  the  Gipsy 
woman  claimed  to  see  through  this 
ring;  and  he  wishes  to  bear  testi- 
mony to  the  blessings  she  brought 
into  his  life." 

Denis  made  a  sound,  and  we  saw 
that  he  wished  to  speak.  We  bent 
over  him.  A  light  as  of  rapture 
flooded  the  old  countenance.  We 
all  heard  him  say,  "The  darlin'!  — 
I'm  goin'  to  her,  Father." 

So  simple,  so  genuine  was  it  all 
that  it  was  hard  for  us,  men  though 
we  were,  to  master  our  emotions 
before  such  a  tribute  to  love's  mem- 
ory and  longing.  Father  O'Leary's 
[52] 


With  Denis  M c Shane 

eyes  were  wet  behind  his  glasses  — 
wet  with  tears  as  human  as  ours. 
But  not  a  quiver  touched  the  stanch 
little  priest's  voice. 

"When  he  got  the  job  of  —  of 
caretaker  in  the  street"  —  that 
euphemism's  quick  tenderness  some- 
how well  nigh  unmanned  me  —  "he 
had  a  fear  that  the  wheels  of  some 
vehicle  might  bring  to  pass  what 
the  Gipsy  woman  had  said.  He  was 
always  on  guard  against  them  — 
more  than  ever  apprehensive  when 
automobiles  began  to  appear  in  the 
street  having  wheels  that  seemed  to 
steal  upon  him  in  swift  silence." 

Not  once,  such  was  the  kindness 
of  Father  O'Leary,  did  any  sign 
escape  him  betraying  recognition 
of  humor  in  such  fancies.  After 
all,  it  must  have  been  very  much 
like  our  heavenly  Father's  way  with 
us  in  taking  our  work-a-day  fears 
with  serious  sympathy  —  most  of 
them,  at  any  rate. 

"An'  wone  o'  thim,"  Denis  mur- 
[531 


At  the  Crossing 

mured,  "wone  o'  thim  shtill  quick 
wheels  —  wuz  it,  sure  'nough  —  at 
last." 

We  heard  the  Christmas  bells 
ring  out  once  more.  It  was  mid- 
night. The  little  house-clock,  whir- 
ring and  noisily  thrumming  twelve 
strokes,  left  no  doubt  of  that. 

"  Merry  Christmas  —  to  yese  — 
an*  to  everybody!"  softly  sounded 
from  the  bed. 

"The  Lord  be  with  thee,"  said 
the  pastor. 

"An'  wid  thy  spirit,  Father." 

Then  Father  O'Leary  turned  to 
the  Domine.  "You  have  been  a 
good  friend  to  him,  and  he  wishes 
that  you  should  join  me  in  executing 
a  Christmas  trust  for  him  —  his 
farewell  to  the  world."  Gently 
reaching  under  the  pillow  Father 
O'Leary  drew  forth  a  knotted  small 
bag. 

"You  wish  that  we  should  use 
these  savings  of  yours  for  the  hap- 
piness of  little  children  who  are 
[541 


WE    TOOK    OUR    WAY     HOME 


With  Denis  M c Shane 

not  likely  to  have  Christmas  gifts 
tomorrow  —  dividing  the  money 
equally  between  us?" 

"Would  that  be  all  right  wid  you, 
Father?" 

"Certainly.  It  would  give  me  a 
very  happy  Christmas." 

"Then  I  do  —  as  you  jus'  said  it." 

"I  will  gladly  accept  such  a  trust," 
said  the  Domine.  And  he  clasped 
Father  O'Leary's  hand.  The  two 
men  stood  thus,  looking  down  on 
Denis. 

An  ashen  whiteness  had  overcast 
his  face.  The  gleam  of  peace  was 
shining  there  still;  but  how  pallid 
was  its  light! 

Father  O'Leary  turned  and  began 
the  last  rites. 

When  the  soul  of  Denis  had  de- 
parted, others  having  come  into 
the  room  the  Domine  and  I  joined 
with  all  our  hearts  in  the  final 
Responsitory,  nothing  being  therein 
to  give  us  pause. 

Sweet  to  us  was  the  opening 
[55] 


At  the  Crossing 

call,  "Come  to  his  assistance,  ye 
saints  of  God,  come  forth  to  meet 
him,  ye  angels  of  the  Lord:  Receiv- 
ing his  soul:  Offering  it  in  the  sight 
of  the  Most  High."  Sweeter  still  was 
the  petition,  "May  Christ  receive 
thee,  who  hath  called  thee."  Beau- 
tiful in  our  ears  were  the  words, 
"Eternal  rest  grant  unto  him,  O 
Lord,  and  let  perpetual  light  shine 
upon  him." 

So  we  went  on  together,  until 
Father  O'Leary's  voice  sounded  at 
last  alone,  "Tibi,  Domine,  commen- 
damus"  —  "To  Thee,  O  Lord,  do 
we  commend  the  soul  of  Thy  serv- 
ant Denis  McShane,  that  being 
dead  to  the  world  he  may  live  unto 
Thee;  and  whatsoever  sins  he  has 
committed  through  the  frailty  of 
his  mortal  nature,  do  Thou,  by  the 
pardon  of  Thy  merciful  love,  wash 
away." 

The  Domine  and  I  said  Amen 
with  the  others. 

And  the  "Passing  Bell"  that  rang 
[56] 


LITTLE    ONES    OF    THE    POOR    BUBBLING 
OVER     WITH     GLADNESS 


With  Denis  Me  Shane 

for  Denis  in  the  tower  of  St.  Anne's 
no  doubt  seemed  to  the  townsfolk 
in  their  dreams  the  bells  of  Christmas 
ringing  still! 

As  we  took  our  way  home,  Father 
O'Leary  said,  "We  can  not  always 
see  eye  to  eye  in  matters  of  faith, 
but  we  can  in  the  things  of  love." 

"And  of  hope, "answered  theDom- 
ine;  "we  are  together  in  two  of 
the  great  three,  anyway." 

When  Christmas  Day  came,  there 
were  little  ones  of  the  poor,  both 
Catholic  and  Protestant,  who  were 
bubbling  over  with  gladness  at  pretty 
gifts  that  came  from  the  First  Church 
parsonage  and  from  the  rectory  of 
St.  Anne's.  Sometimes  the  divid- 
ing lines  got  crossed.  The  Dave 
Shaw  children  could  hardly  believe 
that  their  presents  came  from  Father 
O'Leary;  and  Bridget  Walsh  said, 
"Well  now,  that's  handsome!"  when 
she  found  that  the  things  for  her 
little  ones  had  come  from  the  Dom- 
ine. 

[57] 


At  the  Crossing 

But  by  and  by  they  all  got  it 
straightened  out  and  understood  that 
Denis  McShane  was  the  source  of 
their  Christmas  joy. 

"After  all,"  said  I  to  the  Dom- 
ine  as  we  sat  together  that  night, 
speaking  of  the  small  coins  which 
made  up  the  bag  of  savings,  "after 
all,  the  Gipsy  queen's  words  came 
true  in  a  better  sense  than  that  of 
the  wheels  — 

'  Through  something  round 
His  fate  is  found.' ' 

"I  was  thinking,"  the  dear  man 
answered,  gazing  into  the  bright 
fireplace,  "  I  was  thinking  —  how 
the  last  crossing  Denis  swept  clean 
is  on  the  highway  that  leads  us  all 
to  our  Father's  House." 


[58] 


A     000  052  690     5 


